I stayed in Vancouver for a few days. Needed to get various mechanical tasks completed on the bike and surely it couldn’t hurt to soak up a bit of metropolitan culture?
Didn’t get more than three or four hours sleep on a given night.
I began to wonder whether the Cambie Gastown Hostel had been set up as some kind of twisted psychological experiment.
Oreo, the hostel cat, lived on my floor, immediately above the nightclub.
Oreo was not a happy moggy.
The other guests couldn’t figure out why the animal kept taking a swipe at them when they tried to cuddle it.
Popped outside for a cigarette in my shorts and flip-flops.
A young woman walked over and stopped just a couple of inches away from my face. She made a grand show of looking me up and down, then sneered and walked off without saying a word.
I guess I’d strayed too far from my natural habitat.
Spent the daytime wandering around the city, seeing the sights and getting a few bits and pieces sorted with the bike.
Probably the most interesting person I met in Vancouver was Rayne.
I found him sitting down on the street with a cardboard sign. Slipped him some cash and got the life story.
He’s British, the first generation of his family to be born in Canada.
He studied to become a social worker, choosing to work in corrections (prison). Unfortunately the emotional ordeal of working in such an environment sent him into a mental breakdown. His wife left him to go travel and pursue her dreams etc.
Unemployed, without her support, he ended up on the streets.
Since then he got run over by a car while crossing the street. His leg is pretty messed up now, so he really struggles to get around the city.
He offered me a beer. Someone had donated him two, but he didn’t drink.
Other offerings included a takeaway Indian Dahl. Rayne pointed out that it would cause him a whole load of digestive dramas.
He prefers dense, calorific stuff like pizza, hot dogs and sugary pastries. He wasn’t sold by my diet of maple syrup tortillas and instant noodles.
I guess I’ll have to develop my repertoire a bit more before I launch that cookbook…
I rapidly established that Rayne was clearly far more intelligent than myself.
We were soon talking about ancient Greek philosophy, English history, and the socioeconomic situation in Vancouver.
I could hardly believe that someone so switched on could be out begging on the streets.
When I asked him about it he said life had kicked so much out of him, he just couldn’t face trying to pull himself up anymore.
He didn’t have any family members to lean on, and actually living on the streets was manageable.
I hung out with Rayne every now and then over the next few days, keeping him supplied with coffee and ciggies. Mostly spending our time talking about England.
Vancouver is one of the few Canadian cities that doesn’t freeze over during the winter, so it’s not the worst place to be homeless.
Lots of wealthy people walking around downtown means a decent amount of cash can be made panhandling.
There were a couple of kilometres of tents down Hastings Street. One of my roommates almost got his phone snatched while walking there at night.
I eventually caved in and gave the nightclub a shot on the last night, along with Christian (Austrian), Petra (Czek) and Camille (Quebecan).
Camille had never been clubbing before.
I suggested that she approach the whole experience like an interactive wildlife documentary.
Nevertheless she wasn’t exactly thrilled by the whole deal.
Despite being ‘Latin Night’, there was an awful lot of Ed Sheeran and similar.
Christian and I immediately gravitated to the table football, where we absolutely demolished all comers.
Feeling more than slightly dazed the next day, I gladly got the hell out of the big city and pedalled for the ferry to Swartz Bay, Vancouver Island.
Victoria was a far more comfortable experience. For a start, the hostel didn’t vibrate at night. They served a free breakfast, dinner and even a complimentary beverage from the bar every evening.
How could both my worst and best hostel experiences be just days apart?
Victoria is a completely different animal to Vancouver. Less vertical, like a European city. Lots of British influences in the architecture.
Got to hang out with my fellow escapees from Vancouver, Christian and Camille. Met plenty of interesting new characters also.
Had the chance to chat with Natalie, who reckoned she was the first trans-woman to cycle the Pan-American Highway.
She was getting her adventure fix in a more vertical capacity, climbing rock faces around Canada with buddies. She still insisted on cycling everywhere of course!
I guess it was time to get back to my business of pedalling again.
By coming back to the Island I had skipped the busy area between Vancouver and Seattle.
The ferry from Victoria to Port Angeles would put me only a short distance from Olympic National Park, back in the countryside.
Met Kathy, Kiki, Todd and Mike at the ferry terminal in Victoria.
They had popped over from Washington on their beautiful steel tandem bicycles.
Despite being in their 70’s and early 80’s there wasn’t an electric motor in sight!
Riding around as a foursome was essentially their social club.
The combination of physical exercise, good company and adventure has got to be a winner, right?
Got a real insight into cycling the West Coast. Mike kindly left me a pair of maps which covered the entire route down. Many thanks indeed!
Although by now it should be well into the rainy season, the skies remained blue and the ground was parched yellow.
An emergency fishing ban had been put in place. There wasn’t sufficient flow in the rivers and creeks for the salmon and steelhead to run.
The fish were apparently keeping station outside river inlets all down the Pacific coast, waiting to begin their final journey inland.
The risk of forest fires was deemed ‘extreme’, so a burn ban was in effect.
I really didn’t want to become the backpacker in the newspapers who carelessly started the wildfire of the decade cooking up his couscous and chilli…
Decided to visit the very top of the West Coast, since I was already in the neighbourhood.
I pedalled out to Cape Flattery, via Clallam Bay.
Lots of twisty roads with plenty of traffic.
Got my Pimsleur app playing listen and repeat Spanish lessons from my phone while I tackled the terrain.
Just another crazy cyclist talking to himself again.
Lots of Trump signs around. Perhaps Spanish wasn’t the best choice?
It started getting seriously windy by the time I reached Neah Bay, in the Makah Indian Reservation.
Got the tent plonked down and pedalled the remaining distance out to the Cape.
The next day I retraced my route and then turned south, onto highway 101, towards Forks.
I would be staying on 101 all the way down to Legget, California.
Logging has long been the main industry in this part of the world, although nowadays Forks is generally associated with the Twilight franchise…
I tried out my embryonic Spanish on a store clerk. It didn’t go well.
I was trying to tell him where I was hoping to visit when I get to Mexico, he thought I was looking for food products from those places. Oh well.
A few miles south from town, I spotted a ‘hostel’ sign, which led to a small wooden house amongst the trees, Rainforest Hostel.
Jimmy, having spent a large chunk of his life working for Hostelling International USA, decided to spend his retirement hosting guests at his home.
These days he’s in his 80s, with all kinds of back surgeries and medical appointments to chase up. Nevertheless, he is determined to maintain a physically demanding, minimalist life out in the countryside.
Before I could settle in and cook my dinner he gave me a thorough talk about his mission.
Jimmy places great value in ‘elders’ passing down wisdom to younger generations.
He’s a big supporter of Bernie Sanders, strongly believing that decisions should be made at the community level, rather than by high placed individuals.
He cited his experiences with Indigenous Americans, how even relatively simple motions involve everyone getting together and sharing their opinions.
He assured me that if you filled a class with Indigenous children and gave them a test, they would automatically share their answers with each other. They are raised to think in terms of succeeding as a group.
Jimmy didn’t require me to pay for my stay, although he suggested a donation to cover for those that couldn’t afford to.
Guests are required to do 15 minutes of chores. For me this involved loading logs into a wheelbarrow and carting them up to the house.
I stayed for a second night, he needed an extra pair of hands to fix his well-pump and I offered to split the logs collected earlier.
Jimmy had a lifetime of river fishing experience to share.
He taught me about how water temperature, clarity and light intensity determine the choice of colour, size and adornment of a spinner.
This is a significantly more scientific approach than my usual ‘I guess I’ll try this and see if it works’ method of lure selection.
My stay was a pretty full-on experience. Lots of philosophy and self reflection. More of a wellness camp than travel accommodation.
At the end of my stay he gave me a ‘review’, something he does for all his guests.
I felt like he could see right through me.
He didn’t mix his words in pointing out several flaws in my character and suggesting that I needed to figure these out over the course of my journey.
I guess I simmered over this for a few days afterwards. Everyone likes to think that they have a thick skin and appreciate constructive criticism, until they actually receive it.
Saying that, I really benefited from being told about things that other people may have noticed, but couldn’t reasonably mention without causing me to fly off the handle at them.
Much appreciated Jimmy.
I would recommend Rainforest Hostel to anyone who considers self improvement a core priority in life.
Pedalled on through misty drizzle. There were supposed to be some fantastic beach views, which were somewhat reduced by the poor visibility.
At Lake Quinault I spotted a cyclist and gave him a shout and a cheerful wave.
Tommy pedalled over to say hello.
He had just completed the Trans-Canada route from Quebec to Vancouver.
His best day of pedalling was an epic 233km, about the same distance as the ride between Rome and Naples. Absolutely ridiculous.
Having decided that battling prevailing headwinds and the occasional tornado for months across Canada wasn’t enough, Tommy decided to continue South from Victoria and pedal down the West Coast.
We rapidly established that his average speed was significantly greater than mine, so he powered on ahead, reconvening outside our camp at Hoquiam.
Instead of rolling into the campsite, Tommy managed to secure us a place to stay with a local retired cop, Tom.
Tom is definitely the guy to speak to about security around town. His whole house was set up with cameras and motion activated lights all around. Mostly seemed to use them to keep an eye on the raccoons and stray cats.
We got hot showers, cooked breakfast, some great stories and a few ideas about the route ahead. He even invited us to take his hot tub for a spin, which was a rare luxury.
Tommy powered on ahead the next day, his planned campsite well ahead of mine.
Once out of town, some pretty brisk climbing took place.
Reached Raymond, a town steeped in history.
The whole waterfront used to be lined with warehouses and jetties for boat traffic. Various bits and pieces remained.
Eager to soak up the cultural history of the place, I headed directly to the local McDonald’s and stuffed my face.
Filled up all my water bottles from the soda fountain. The days of pumping water from rivers and lakes were behind me.
Discovered an actual cyclepath, following the bank of the Willapa river past South Bend.
Spotted a strange shape by the waterside quay and pedalled closer to investigate…
Having forcibly recalibrated my understanding of marine biology, I motored onwards.
Camped in a patch of trees on a raised bank beside the highway.
A few miles out from camp, Connor caught up with me. He had just finished his summer contract in British Columbia and figured he would mess around on his bike for a while until ski season started.
We shared the road down into Astoria, Oregon. With a lot of interests in common, we pretty much nattered the whole way.
Eventually, having resolved punctures and crossed the iconic bridge into Astoria, we established our camp at Fort Stevens State Park.
The next day it turned out Tommy was in town, his parents had paid for him to stay in a hotel.
We teamed up and he invited two other riders, Anna and Yacob, from Germany.
We stayed another night and probably drank too much. Tried to do a bit of fishing in the nearby lake without any success.
Yacob and I swapped bikes for a test ride.
His lightly-loaded road bike with skinny tyres felt like riding a magic carpet.
Apparently Old Red Forks felt like riding through sand.
We rolled out of Warrington as five. Yacob and Anna seemed to push the pace without much effort. I was really kicking my own arse just to keep up.
Eventually had a chat about just letting everyone else go ahead.
I felt a bit left out due to being slow. Departing from Alaska solo, I had never planned my setup in terms of keeping up with other people.
The Oregon coast immediately lived up to its reputation as being one of the most stunning sections in the West.
The rainy season had been delayed until this point.
On Friday, the rain was due to begin.
Everybody was talking about Friday, cyclists and locals alike.
The days passed, our group chat fell silent. Braced for impact.
Then the day came.
Looking back at my diary, the first couple of sentences consist entirely of expletives.
Whoever built the roads through the hills didn’t consider building the roads wide enough to allow for a shoulder.
Logging truckers are on a tight schedule. They need to keep a brisk pace.
They won’t delay for anything.
Blind corner?
Twisty descent?
They brush past inches from your handlebars going at full chat.
Meanwhile, you are climbing a hill at a frustratingly sluggish pace, in the driving rain, with crap visibility.
Just have to hope you don’t get hit. You are already hugging the crash barrier as closely as possible without snagging.
Forget claiming your lane.
Even if vehicles had someone alongside in the passing lane, they wouldn’t ease up on the gas to wait for a more convenient moment.
So just hope for the best and get it over with.
Get over the three day hump and normalise the situation.
Eventually I stopped caring that I was soaked. My raincoat was so gunked up that it wasn’t breathable anymore. I would just overheat and slow down. I stopped wearing it except on long descents. Waterproof trousers weren’t worth the hassle.
Just put on enough insulation to maintain a reasonable pace without getting cold.
Stopping to take in the sights meant getting a chill, best solved by pedalling again. I didn’t stop much.
I didn’t mind being wet during the day, but I wanted to be nice and dry when ensconced in camp.
I picked up a cheap tarp and some bits of string.
Now I could set up and take down my tent without it getting drenched.
I could enjoy a veranda under which I could cook and hang out in my dry clothes.
‘Tarpology’ is a great bit of fun when camping: Identifying anchor points, getting all the bits of string the right length and pitching the tent in the best possible orientation under the tarp turned the whole experience into a bit of a game.
My tent even had carpet! I stretched out a cotton blanket over the ground sheet.
It greatly improved the perceived cosiness of my little home.
The downpour simply stopped being an issue at camp. I could regroup and take it easy in relative comfort.
State parks have a ‘hiker biker’ section, with a much cheaper fee for camping. Usually between 7 and 10 dollars.
After being out in the rain all day, it was well worth paying to access hot showers and flushing toilets.
Occasionally, the rain would let up for a while. The views along the coast were absolutely stunning.
Met Matt hiking along the roadside. It was either that or along the beach.
He was attempting to walk the length of the Oregon coast.
He later caught up with me at Tilicum Beach Campground, having carried a slab of beers five miles from Waldport. Top bloke!
We worked our way through the beers under a veranda outside the restrooms, hanging out all of our soaked kit.
Had the bright idea to set up a washing line inside. Hoping for a brief respite to air out my on-bike clothes overnight.
Matt seemed concerned about the crime situation in Southern California, and offered to lend me one of his handguns. He assured me that I would be able to carry it over the border into Mexico, as long as I declared it at the border.
No thanks mate. I’m pretty accident prone. Probably more likely to shoot myself, an innocent bystander, or provoke someone else into shooting me, than save my life with the thing.
Besides, it would be illegal to possess as a non-resident in the USA. So even if it did come in handy, I would probably end up wearing a jumpsuit and trying not to drop the soap.
I’ll stick with the bear spray and try to keep good karma. Hope for the best really. If someone wants to mug me I’m just going to give them what they want and not risk my life.
The next morning all of our clothes were gone. they even nicked the washing line.
I checked with the park rangers, in case they had taken it down.
They told us that there was a large homeless community in the park. They couldn’t legally move them on. People often rolled in after dark to use the facilities. Probably one of them had helped themselves to our kit.
Somebody in Oregon is now rocking my Pearl Izumi’s and Under Armour.
Matt lost his expensive rain jacket. He was pissed. Wasn’t receptive to my attempts to look on the bright side.
In terms of on-bike kit, this left me with my cotton ‘bloody cyclist’ T-shirt (a leaving gift from my last teaching job, glad not to lose it), and one pair of lycra shorts. Hoodie and hiking trousers provided sufficient insulation for rainy day pedalling, with a hi viz vest over the top.
I went forward with a wet set/ dry set approach. Get clean and swap into the ‘dry’ camp clothes as soon as possible. Wash socks and lycra by dancing on them in the shower.
Put the ‘wet’ set on again in the morning.
Shorts wouldn’t dry out, so would go on wet every morning. Yesterday’s socks went on the handlebars to dry out. Fresh socks on. Couple of shopping bags over the top to keep the feet warm and relatively dry.
Actually this seemed to really improve my personal hygiene. Perhaps the gods of ultralight were trying to help me out? Or more likely I’m just a muppet for losing my kit.
Tried to lighten the front of the bike some more at Florence.
Mailed home a few non-essentials, including my bouldering shoes (used only twice since Deadhorse), gymnastics rings (picked up in Vancouver as a means to do an upper body workout, never used in practice) and waterproof trousers (largely pointless while riding. During the evening the tarp provided so much more for roughly the same bulk).
The reduced load in the front panniers really improved the responsiveness of the bike.
Began to consider ditching the bear canister. Another bit of potentially unnecessary kit. While there are big furries knocking around in California, they were not really a concern on my remaining stretch down the coast.
Camped at Umpqua Lighthouse State Park. Went for my evening shower/ laundry dance and then plodded back to camp.
My head torch revealed several pairs of eyes glittering around my tent. Uh oh.
They skittered off into the bushes as I approached.
The crime scene was revealed.
All my macaroni, oats, hot chocolate and veggies were scattered in a thick trail leading into the bushes.
It’s essentially the backpacker equivalent of the tourist who feeds the seagulls at the seaside.
Robbed for the second time in 48 hours… Brilliant.
Everything inside the bear canister was untouched. Perhaps not a bad thing to hang onto afterall?
The critters kept coming back over the night, rummaging around my rain fly looking for more morsels.
The next morning I met Harold, an educational volunteer at Umpqua Lighthouse.
Discovered that Grey Whales migrate from their summer feeding grounds around Alaska, to winter in lagoons around Baja California. I guess I’m going the same way.
Had a great chat about philosophy, politics and science. Harold compared the US two party system to football teams. Supporters ignoring potentially valid points from the opposition because of their tribal affiliation.
Definitely someone that I could have nattered with all day, but pedals needed to be spun.
My skate shoes were pretty much falling apart after 4000 miles or so. The pins in the pedals kept poking my foot through a hole in the bottom.
Popped into a bike shop in Coos Bay and grabbed a used pair of MTB shoes.
I immediately noticed a huge improvement in perceived effort, especially when climbing.
My casual shoes used to bend backwards with each pedal stroke, sapping energy.
Decided to go the whole hog and swap my flat pedals for clipless SPD.
I knew it was only a matter of time before I forgot to unclip and fell over in the street…
Apparently Tommy was just one day ahead of me, having taken a few days off at Humbug Mountain State Park. He offered to wait for me to catch up so we could hang out.
Finally a chance for a decent social time.
I pelted my way down through Port Orford, stopping just long enough to grab an enormous bottle of wine.
Reached the campground. No Tommy.
Bollocks.
Pedalled around the site. Not a sign of him.
Spotted two bikes and various bits of tent hung out to dry. Headed over to ask if they had seen my mate.
Josh and Lisa had spent a bit of time riding with Tommy, before he zoomed off ahead.
I explained my difficulty with having a substantial bottle of wine. They offered to help, and invited me to stay on their site.
They were riding down the Oregon coast, writing an article for Adventure Sports Magazine.
Both very dedicated foodies, their tour involved joining the dots between various bars and restaurants.
They supplemented this by foraging for food along their way.
Lisa went for a wander around camp and came back with a whole load of mushrooms for our dinner.
Spent a great evening around the campfire. Light-hearted banter and storytelling. Perfect.
‘Be seen, be safe’ Josh and Lisa rocking their high-vis tutus. The back of Josh’s vest says ‘Real men wear tutus’.
The next day, on their recommendation, I backtracked to Cape Blanco State Park, before continuing South to Brookings.
This last little stretch had some of the very best coastal scenery that I’d seen so far. The weather was generally behaving as well!
Stopped to take a snap of a patch of rocks. Unclipped one foot and rested it on the crash barrier. Accidentally pushed myself upright and reached a balance point.
Oh crap.
Rather than calmly unclipping the other foot and catching myself I just tugged ineffectually on the pedal, for what felt like two seconds, and then fell over in the road.
Lots more beautiful scenery for the remaining bit of Oregon.
Finally rolled into Brookings Campsite the day before Halloween.
1092 miles remaining to San Diego.
